Inside the Box
by Corelli Sonatas
Summary: A letter urges Mary to pick up a possession of Matthew's at his old office. What she discovers in the box touches her heart. Set during Series Four.


The last news Mary Crawley expected to receive one Wednesday evening was that she needed to hurry over to her late husband's office. A gleaming crimson sunset had commenced its performance above the English countryside; the spring air was warm and crisp, and everything convinced the woman that the tranquil day would end quietly.

Until Carson entered the dining-room, where Mary had taken little George to watch the magnificent day transform into night. "Milady," he announced from behind. She turned away from the large window, supporting the baby's back with her hands. "Carson?"

"There appears to be a matter of urgency..." He quickly walked across the room, which had begun to experience the full power of the sunset outside. Beams of light reflected off the polished wooden-table, and the minutest specks of dust could be seen dancing in the air.

Mary took the note into her free hand. Tentatively Carson informed, "The man responsible for delivering this... He was a colleague of the late Mr. Crawley -"

"Mr. Waters, yes," answered the widow, nodding whilst she examined the finely-printed name on the envelope. "Mr. Crawley introduced him to me." She looked back up and smiled at Carson. "Thank you."

"I suggest your ladyship read it now; Mr. Waters appeared very grave just now, when he delivered the letter."

"Of course; thank you, Carson." It mildly bothered the young woman that the butler remained in the room as if to ensure that she'd immediately read the letter; however, she soon forgot about it when her eyes shot from left to right on the paper:

_We have recovered a possession of Matthew Crawley, Esquire. In accordance with the law of our land, Mr. Crawley's remaining possessions belong to his wife, Lady Mary Josephine Crawley. With due respect, the government requires she who inherits Mr. Crawley's belongings to report to his office in Yorkshire, England by the date indicated..._

She almost lost her balance. "Sorry, my darling." George had grabbed onto his mother's upper body upon instinct. Mary stroked her son's light-brown hair gently whilst she completed the letter. The butler remained silent until she'd finished reading it.

"Carson," announced Mary, "please notify the chauffeur that I shall be ready in ten minutes' time. Tell Nanny that I am taking George with me." She readjusted the baby in her arms and folded the letter back into the envelope. Her pulse quickened when she and her son were left alone in the room. Sensing this change in his mother, George's face crumpled. "Shhh, don't worry. Mummy's becoming too nervous," Mary assured him. "Come, let's go to your Papa's office."

...

The sun was nowhere to be found by the time Mary and George had arrived at Matthew's old office. On their way inside the one-story building, mother and son caught a draught of the cool, gentle breeze that travelled north.

Sure enough, Mr. Waters greeted them at the door with a ginger "Hello, Lady Mary."

"Thank you, Mr. Waters, for insuring that I received notice to come." Mary quickly introduced the man to her son, provoking numerous, overdue tears from the lawyer.

"Please do follow me." The man led Mary down a few halls, past several private office-rooms, until they'd reached the other end of the seemingly endless building. "You may have visited from time to time, milady, but anyway..." Mr. Waters clicked the door to the left open. "Mr. Crawley's office..."

Perhaps it was too much for the woman, even though she donned colourful attire and acted perfectly composed as if nothing had struck her life with devastation. But her feet feasibly brought her and George into the stuffy, practically-barren room that had belonged to her husband. The walls held generic office-paintings, presenting nothing to Mary that screamed "Matthew". It didn't singularly upset her, but for her to enter a partition of the office in which her dear, late husband had spent hours every day... To find it empty, plain, and heartless worried her. She almost felt as if Matthew had never existed in this office, in her _life._

Mr. Waters continued casually, despite these thoughts that had transpired in Mary's mind. He retrieved a long, thin box from the bookshelf in the room. "I understand, milady, that you will want to read the content you're about to find in this box. I promise not to leave the building for the night until you've finished. Please remember that everything in here -" he handed Mary the slim container - "belongs to you now. I only wish this were due to better circumstances." The kind man smiled sadly, and Mary thanked him one more.

At last she and George were alone in Matthew's office. Sitting George next to her on the floor (because there were no chairs in which to rest), Mary inhaled bravely and unlatched the lock on the box. "Oh, Matthew," she whispered. George obediently remained adjacent to his mother, eyes searching the room for anything cheery at which to look.

The first item to catch the woman's eye was a faint, pink-coloured slip of paper that peeked out of the box when she opened it. Her deft fingers unfolded it; at the top of the paper was a drawing out of ink. Mary gasped when she recognised the image.

It was the abbey. _This is from the war,_ figured she. _Matthew must have written it in the trenches, but never sent it._ She perused the short note with her hand covering her quivering lips:

_Dearest Mother,_

_I suppose you can guess where my heart wishes to be at this moment. Perhaps my little drawing speaks only selfish thoughts, but I cannot force myself to forget about a place that I have grown to call "home". Everyone is in my constant prayers, of course; yet I can't stop wondering about Mary._

_She and I parted on bad terms, yes, but a fraction of my silly little brain believes that she wants to see me as well. War can do the unimaginable to young men, Mother, and I thank The Lord that you will never have to experience the life of a soldier._

_If you go to the abbey anytime soon, speak to Mary for me. I don't mean that you should deliver her a message from me; to be honest, I have none. I simply want you to talk to her and to treasure our family - because right now I cannot. God knows how long they'll want me here until I can return home._

The letter ended with Matthew's signature and a few drops of ink, which Mary presumed had resulted from a faulty pen. She shook her head, closed her eyes, and set the letter on the ground. George saw it and picked it up. "Your papa wrote that letter, George," she explained to him.

When the woman returned to the box of past memories, she assumed that there would only be more and more brief letters from the war, and that her head would ache like never before by the time she was through with reading them. But to her utter amazement, only one other item remained.

It had appeared to be several distinct documents and letters, but Mary withdrew the folded sheet of paper and realised she was wrong.

Even George lifted his eyes to stare at the thing in awe. Massive in length and width, what Mary had imagined to be multiple handwritten letters was in fact a compiled timeline of medical records.

Gazing right back at her was the greatest amount of Dr. Clarkson's handwriting, along with post-scripts by Matthew himself. This in itself did not put Mary on the verge of uncontrollable weeping; but oh, how she loved her deceased husband even more than she had when he'd cradled their newborn son in his arms on the day he died.

It was a collage of documents, all from Mary's pregnancy check-ups. Matthew had kept them all; Mary imagined the project to have taken hours to complete...

Old tears sprung from her eyes all over again. "Oh, my darling Matthew," cried she, because the collage was not finished.

He had never the chance to include George's birth certificate, or a photograph of the baby after birth, or the baptismal certificate...

This, Mary knew, was too much for her to bear. She heard George crying beside her on the floor, but eyes could not capture what she wished to see.

She wanted to see Matthew there. She ached to hear him soothe their little George, who would lie peacefully in his arms upon feeling his father's sweet kiss against his forehead. All this Mary could only picture, and even then the image was a blur.

In time the woman had George on her lap, wiping his tears from his wet face. Finally, she decided that she would read what Matthew had written regarding the medical appointments.

The first one was a heartwarming sentence: _Today our little prince is four months away from being born, and you felt him kick for the first time._

Suddenly Mary couldn't get enough of Matthew's words. No longer did she break into minute-long fits of tears; her mind raced with excitement as she unwrapped every piece of this gift that her husband had crafted so beautifully. _He's created a work of art,_ she decided, smiling at the small paragraph he'd included next to Dr. Clarkson's diagnosis of the pregnancy:

_These were perhaps the most mind-blowing words I've ever heard: that my darling wife, Mary Crawley, is to give birth to our first child in October of this year. Mary, I try to understand how brave you are, but it surpasses my knowledge. To think that you are carrying a little form of life with you - and you will for eight more months - causes me to shiver with amazement. Indeed, you will never cease to be my storm braver._

Before too long, Mary noticed that the sky was pitch-black. It was a night of no moon - or more properly termed "new moon" - and this made the woman smile. "Look, George," she told her son, lifting him up to the windowsill. "There is no moon tonight." She moved his arm to point it at the sky. "But that is a wonderful sign, my darling. That means in time, we will look up at the night sky and find a bright, full moon smiling back."

Though the baby was only seven months old, he somehow understood the phenomenon, mumbling something whilst pointing to the tranquil sky. His bright blue eyes looked at his mother in wonderment. Mary cherished the moment in the darkness and stroked the baby's cheek. "Yes," she sighed, speaking to Matthew whilst referring to the baby. "You _are_ our little prince."


End file.
